


This is Halloween

by Mraowface



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absinthe, Fluff, Halloween, M/M, Pumpkin carving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 15:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mraowface/pseuds/Mraowface
Summary: Crowley gets excited over Halloween, and Aziraphale indulges him.





	This is Halloween

Crowley sat in the kitchen, holding a very sharp knife. This last cut was the most important one. After a tense minute he sat back, satisfied.

Aziraphale meandered in, hankering for a cup of tea. He stopped dead. _“Crowley!”_

“Yes?”

“What's... what's all this?”

“Halloween!” exclaimed the demon happily. “I'm carving pumpkins,” and gestured at the array. There were over a dozen pumpkins dotted around the kitchen counter. “This one's Hastur, and Beelzebub, and _this_ one...” - he turned the final pumpkin around to face the angel.

Aziraphale gasped. “Gabriel!” It was indeed the archangel, with a particularly unpleasant enraged expression on his face (Crowley had studied and memorised it frozen in just such a look, at Aziraphale's failed execution.

“It's hideous!”

“Thanks,” grinned Crowley.

“But – but where are you putting them all?”

“In the shop! I'm getting into the holiday spirit,” beamed Crowley, as if he'd done something particularly clever.

“You – you want to put candles in my shop?” blanched Aziraphale.

“No! Nonononono.” Crowley looked aghast. “Look, LEDs.” He picked up an electric tea light and waved it. “Look, it's safe. I would _never...”_

“Oh! No, of course not. I'm sorry, my dear. But isn't it all a bit... tasteless?”

“Yep!” Crowley grinned. “I can't wait!”

****

Tasteless was hardly the word for it. The shop looked _hideous._ Crowley had somehow draped the shelves in real cobwebs (Aziraphale didn't even want to know how he'd managed that, so long as it all got cleaned up after) – more than even the angel would normally have allowed to spook potential customers. And there were paper bats that fluttered alarmingly realistically. A large steaming cauldron full of green punch (“with absinthe!” explained a happy Crowley), and large bowls overflowing with distressingly shaped jelly sweeties.

“It's_ beautiful,”_ Crowley sighed.

“Um, yes dear. You... you will put it all right again, won't you?”

“'Course I will.” Crowley swooped in for a kiss. “It's just for today. And when I'm done clearing up, I'll let you smash the Gabriel pumpkin!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale tried not to look gratified. “Well... I guess that's alright then.”

****

The shop had a lot of customers that day. Aziraphale fluttered around anxiously, shooing people away from his most prized sections. Crowley was staying near the punch bowl, happily surveying, and munching jelly snakes.

“Crowley...?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Why are all these children so overstimulated?”

“E numbers.”

“Oh dear lord...”

Crowley had in fact had a hand in creating E numbers. Proud of his achievement, he had pointed out their association with behavioural problems to Hell. He'd left off the part where he just liked the bright colours and artificial flavourings.

Aziraphale noticed the demon's twitching fingers.

“Dearest?”

“Yes, my love?”

“How many jelly snakes have you eaten?”

Crowley glanced down at the bowl. “Seventeen?”

“Lord have mercy,” sighed Aziraphale.

****

Crowley wouldn't let the angel close the shop until gone four. “The children haven't hit the whining stage,” he explained.

After they'd eventually closed up (with Crowley cackling and chasing the remaining customers out with a broom), Aziraphale decided the tidying could wait till tomorrow, and they settled on the sofa, with the absinthe punch steaming between them on the floor.

It didn't take long before they were utterly trashed. Giggling, Crowley related stories of his favourite temptations over the years, while Aziraphale gazed at him affectionately.

Still giggling, they transported all the pumpkins up to the kitchen floor, miracled themselves a pair of heavy boots each, and stomped them into pieces. It was deeply satisfying, smashing all their former colleagues into slimy orange mush.

The next day, Crowley cleaned up the shop. He was just chasing the last of the spiders into a cardboard box, when Aziraphale stopped them.

“Do you think you could leave a few? Mr Stevenson seemed quite frightened of them, and he's been badgering me about my Shakespeare for weeks...”

“'Course, angel. Which ones do you want?”

They picked out their favourite spiders, named them (mainly taking inspiration from Dickens), and released them back into the shop. Aziraphale had to admit, Halloween was an excellent celebration. He just hoped Crowley didn't have his heart set on Bonfire Night...


End file.
